


Just Beyond the Memory

by burn_me_down



Series: SEAL Team Week 2020 [5]
Category: SEAL Team (TV)
Genre: Brock Reynolds Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt Sonny Quinn, Hurt Trent Sawyer, Night Terrors, Protective Siblings, SEAL Team Week 2020, Team as Family, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-16
Updated: 2020-01-16
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:33:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22287193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/burn_me_down/pseuds/burn_me_down
Summary: Brock and his sisters go on vacation in North Carolina. It’s beautiful and peaceful, and Brock is okay. He’s trying really hard to be okay. (He’s not okay.)
Relationships: Brock Reynolds & Cerberus, Brock Reynolds & Trent Sawyer
Series: SEAL Team Week 2020 [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1600147
Comments: 18
Kudos: 85





	Just Beyond the Memory

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt used: Brock
> 
> Dedicated to **writeallnight** for the lovely stories, and the beautifully encouraging reviews, and the constant kindness. Once upon a time in a review for _All the Ashes,_ you mentioned wanting to see Brock on vacation with his sisters. Um, sorry about the angst?
> 
> This story takes place vaguely in the same universe as _All the Ashes_ (at least as far as Brock’s family goes), but you don’t need to have read that to understand this.
> 
> Title from _Save Love_ by Vertical Horizon.

When Brock and his family arrive in Rodanthe, North Carolina, it’s early in the day and the weather is beautiful: a sweet, gentle sea breeze and high blue skies, with just a faint suggestion of clouds over the ocean at the far horizon.

Once everyone gets settled into their quarters for the stay, Brock’s sisters corral their kids and he corrals his dog, and they head down to the beach for the afternoon.

It’s early enough in the summer that the weather is pleasantly warm, but nowhere near hot enough to feel oppressive. Still, the sun is bright and Brock’s niblings are a horde of pale little goblins, so sun protection is mandatory. Brock ends up following his very hyperactive 6-year-old nephew Peter around with a can of spray sunscreen, threatening to have Cerberus sit on him if he doesn’t stop moving, which accomplishes nothing except getting the tiny perpetual motion machine to burst into giggles.

Lynne, the oldest of the cousins at 12 and only girl of the bunch, patiently slathers baby sunscreen onto Peter’s much more mellow 3-year-old brother John. Ten-year-old Charles solemnly handles his own sun protection needs while watching the proceedings with an expression that suggests he believes himself surrounded by idiots.

Eleanor and Jessica, Brock’s sisters and the originators of this motley crew of children, have already washed their hands of the whole situation and headed down to the water, flip-flops kicked off, toes in the waves. A distant shriek arises as Jessica splashes Eleanor in the face and then immediately gets body-slammed straight into the ocean in a move worthy of the WWE.

Still chasing Peter and doing his best to hit a moving target, Brock grins to himself.

Definitely grown-ass adults, these sisters of his.

Some things never change.

Eventually, the rest of them meander down to the water, at which point Jessica emerges, dripping and smiling, to wrestle John and Peter into their puddle jumpers. Lynne and Charley don’t need such safety measures; they have both been swimming like fish for years now.

This is nice. Beautiful. They have this stretch of beach almost to themselves, and the calm weather means the Outer Banks water is especially clear, shining a crystalline blue-green in the crisp sunlight. It’s not often that Brock experiences the ocean like this: no mission objectives, no danger, just wind and gentle waves and the laughter of children (and overgrown children).

When they planned this little vacation, Brock suggested just going to the Virginia Beach Oceanfront since it was literally right there. His sisters objected, saying the whole point of getting away was to _get away,_ and they wanted someplace a little more off the beaten path. Now that they’re here, he’s glad he gave in.

For these few days of peace, there’s absolutely nowhere else Brock has to be. No danger. No chance he’ll get spun up.

It’s nice. It is. And he’s having fun. Watching Cerberus bite at waves and joyously dart through salt spray with Peter chasing him and screaming with laughter, it’s hard not to smile.

Brock tries not to notice the way his sisters keep glancing at him when they think he isn’t looking.

He’s okay. He’s fine.

Most of the time he even feels like it, and then every once in a while there will be an odd discordant moment where it seems that the sunlight goes dim, his limbs numb, and he briefly turns into a puppeteer operating his own body from a distance.

It always passes and he snaps back to the here and now, back into his body, because he is absolutely _fine._

He didn’t even get hurt on Bravo’s most recent mission. Not a scratch.

(Brock keeps looking down at his hands, but there’s never any red. No sign of anything between his fingers or beneath his fingernails except seawater and sand.)

By sunset, the kids have played themselves into a pleasant sort of exhaustion that makes them quieter and more compliant than usual. After eating sandwiches and ice cream for dinner, the group returns back to the rental house, which is big enough for the entire family. Well, those of them who are here.

Brock’s parents both passed away within the past couple years, after having been in poor health for some time. Though they’ve been gone for a while, their absence still lingers at the edge of everything, bittersweet, coming to the surface now and then in sudden comments of, “Do you remember when Dad...” Or, “Mom would have loved this.”

The other missing family member is Jessica’s husband David, who has a high-powered career as some sort of VP of Sales or something Brock doesn’t really care about. Apparently it’s a busy time of year for his company, so he couldn’t get time off work to come on vacation with his wife and their three boys.

(Brock might be tempted to have an opinion about that, except he’s not exactly in a position to judge anyone else’s work-life balance.)

Eleanor and Lynne are a content little family unit of their own, always have been. There’s a story behind that, but not a force in the universe can make El Reynolds talk about something she doesn’t want to, so they’ve all made their peace with not knowing.

After the kids are in bed, Brock, El and Jess stay up chatting about everything and nothing, teasing and laughing and playing a few hands of poker, using the seashells the kids gathered in place of poker chips. Eleanor was the one who taught both of her younger siblings to play back in the day, and while Brock’s teammates would probably have a hard time believing it, she still has the best poker face of the three of them. (Jess’s is _pathetic._ )

Brock enjoys the rare opportunity to spend time with his sisters without life interfering, and he tries to force away the nagging sense that the happiness is thinly layered over the top of something else, something darker that is trying to eat away at the edges of his mind.

All too soon, it’s past midnight and the adults reluctantly head off to bed. The darkness of Brock’s room feels oppressive, heavy on his chest, but the warm weight of Cerberus at his side helps stave it off.

Eventually, he falls asleep.

And then he dreams.

_“Shit! Bravo Four is down! HAVOC, how copy?” Brock presses down as hard as he can, but the blood just keeps coming. He needs Trent to talk to him, tell him what to do, how to make this better, but Trent’s mouth keeps opening and closing without making a sound. His eyes look glazed and distant, like he’s already half gone._

_“Bravo One? Any Bravo element, radio check, over!” Brock digs around, quickly unravels a roll of gauze to shove under his hands, stacks them back on top of each other and leans all his weight on the wound._

_Trent doesn’t make a sound. It’s worse than if he’d screamed._

_Brock’s radio crackles, glitches, and then he hears Sonny’s voice, sharp with desperation: “-Bravo element, come in! I’m pinned down here and fixin’ to be Winchester!”_

_“Bravo Four, Bravo Five, what’s your status?” Jason’s tone carries razor-edged calm. “Bravo Three needs backup. Now.”_

_Jason, Ray and Spenser are too far out. They’ll never reach Sonny in time. Brock knows they won’t._

_Knows, too, that Trent will die if he leaves him._

_“Bravo One, this is Bravo Five,” he says evenly, “Bravo Four is down and hemorrhaging from an abdominal wound. Rendering aid.”_

_There’s a fraught, tense pause, and then Jason comes back with one clipped word: “Understood.”_

_Brock is near enough to hear the gunfire as Sonny, horribly outnumbered, engages the enemy. Close enough to listen helplessly as Bravo Three’s return fire grows more and more sporadic._

_Sonny is running out of time. How can Brock possibly just sit here and listen to him die?_

_But how can he abandon Trent to bleed out?_

_Finally, after what feels like forever, the bleeding starts to slow. Brock leans back, dares lift the pressure a bit... and the dark flow of blood immediately increases again._

_The scream of “FUCK!” rips out of his throat, so sudden and startlingly loud that Cerberus flinches and whines at him._

_He can’t do this._

_He can’t stay and let Sonny die._

_He can’t leave and let Trent die._

_But he has to pick one or the other, and how the fuck is he supposed to do that? Does he choose the teammate who isn’t already injured, knowing the downed one could very well die even with aid?_

_The gunfire has gone almost completely quiet now. Has he already waited too long for that to be an option?_

_Gut twisting, Brock tries to call Sonny over the radio. Gets no response. Tries again. Silence._

_He looks down, sees Trent’s glazed, half-open eyes, and that’s the moment when it hits him what he has just done._

_By being unable to choose, he’s killed them both._

_His brothers are dead and it’s his fault. They’re dead, they’re-_

Someone is screaming.

Someone else is talking over it, loud but calm and steady.

“Broccoli, you’re okay. We’re right here. You’re okay. Everybody’s safe. Breathe. Just breathe with me, that’s all you have to do. Come back. Come back come back come back. Please please come back.”

He knows that voice from childhood, from scraped knees and broken windows and nightmares of falling.

_Eleanor._

Brock clamps his mouth shut, and the screaming stops. His throat feels ripped raw. He finally registers the feeling of arms wrapped around him, hair tickling his face and neck, the faint sense of being rocked back and forth.

His big sister, who is six inches shorter than him and sixty pounds lighter, has somehow managed to fold him into her lap and is swaying with him like he’s a baby.

Once he gets himself together enough to talk, he should probably remind her that that might not be the smartest way to handle a dangerous Tier One operator in the midst of a night terror - even if said Tier One operator does happen to be your little brother.

For the moment, though, he’s too focused on breathing, calming the gallop of his heart, grounding himself to the feeling of his sister’s arms around him and the steady sound of her voice, softer now that he’s stopped screaming.

“It’s not real,” she whispers to him. “It’s okay, Broccoli. It’s not real.”

(But it _was._ That’s kind of the whole issue here.)

The night terrors didn’t start with the military. He had them sometimes as a kid, too. Woke up drowning in fear for no reason, chased by horrors he couldn’t name. When that happened, it was usually Eleanor who reached him first. Sometimes even Jess.

This is the first night terror he’s had in years.

Prying his eyes open, Brock squints against the light and finally scrapes together enough dignity and self-awareness for his cheeks to heat with embarrassment. He untangles himself from Eleanor and sits cross-legged on the floor, raking his hands through his tangled hair. Cerberus darts over and presses his head against Brock’s knee, staring up at him with worried puppy eyes.

Jessica is shooing wide-eyed, curious children out of the room, talking to them quietly but intensely. She closes the door behind them with a click, leaving the room echoing quiet.

Eleanor smooths back her own mane of wild, curly dark hair. Giving Brock a soft smile, she asks, “Better?”

Brock swallows, suppressing a wince at the pain in his throat. Running his fingers through Cerb’s fur, he says, “Yeah.” Pauses for only an instant before adding, “Thanks.”

His voice wobbles on the word, almost breaks, but Eleanor doesn’t flinch or look fazed at all. She just nods and tells him calmly, “Good. That’s good.”

He’d almost forgotten this, with all the years that have passed. That Eleanor never lingered on these moments. She faced them with calm and let them pass once they were done. He has always loved that about her.

“Do you need to talk about it?” El asks. He knows her word choice is deliberate; _need,_ not _want._

He breathes in, out. Shakes his head.

“Okay,” she says. She smiles again, but this time it’s directed at the still-concerned Malinois. “Cerberus came and woke me up right before it got bad. I think he knew something was wrong.”

Brock scratches behind Cerb’s ears, telling him softly, “Good boy.” Gets a quiet whine in response.

Eleanor gets up, heads for the door, and casually stoops to press a kiss to the top of Brock’s head on her way past. His heart rate has slowed now, breathing almost back to normal, and he can’t decide whether to feel more embarrassed or grateful.

This time it takes him longer to go to sleep, but once he finally does, there are no more dreams that night.

The next morning the kids are quiet and visibly curious, sneaking glances at Brock between bites of sugar masquerading as cereal. Every time one of the boys starts to open his mouth, Lynne administers a quick kick under the table, or quickly starts chattering brightly about some mundane subject.

After breakfast, Jessica pulls Brock aside, hands him her iPad, and briskly walks away. He glances down and does a double take when he sees Clay’s face on the screen.

Spenser smiles, and it looks genuine for all that he’s visibly tired and worn, the deep lines around his eyes speaking to how little sleep he’s been getting. “Hey, Broccoli,” he says.

Brock doesn’t quite manage to keep his groan internal. He is _never_ going to forgive Jessica for letting that little piece of intel slip. Clay laughed for _days_ afterward, and has persisted in calling him by the nickname ever since.

“Hey, Spense. How are things?” Brock keeps his tone neutral. He isn’t sure what, if anything, Jess might have told his teammate.

“Good,” Clay says sincerely. “Thought you might like to say hello to a couple of my little friends.”

_“Little?”_

Sonny Quinn’s outraged drawl, coming from somewhere offscreen, lifts some of the weight Brock didn’t even realize had been resting on his shoulders since the nightmare. Since before it.

Sonny continues to pontificate about how there ‘ain’t nothin’ little about me, son,’ to which Clay just rolls his eyes and hands over his tablet.

The sight of Brock’s face immediately distracts Sonny, and he lights up in a grin. “Broccoli!”

Oh, God. Now it’s him too.

“Hey, Son,” Brock says. “How’s your shoulder?”

Quinn makes a face, then gives a slight, careful shrug that still makes him wince. “Docs say I shouldn’t need any more surgery. Hopefully. Just a waiting game now, but they think I’ll get back to full function.”

In the end, things in real life hadn’t played out exactly the way they did at the end of the dream.

Sonny was shot before Brock could reach him, but not fatally. Together, they were able to hold off the tangos until the rest of Bravo could make it to them.

Brock made his choice. It was one of the hardest decisions of his life, something he hopes he’ll never have to do again, but he made it.

He made the choice, and now it haunts him. Probably always will.

“Is that Brock?”

Trent’s voice is still soft, weak and rough at the edges, but the sound of it comes through clearly, straight into Brock’s heart. He squeezes his eyes shut to hold back a prickle of sudden tears.

“Yeah, Trent, it’s Broccoli!” Sonny yells gleefully.

“Let me talk to him,” Trent orders.

When Sonny hands over the tablet, Brock takes a minute to check his brother over. He’s only been gone just over a day, so of course there isn’t much change. Trent is still paler than he should be, visibly tired, but alive and on the mend. Slowly.

Some part of Brock’s brain still can’t believe it. That they all walked away. Or, well, some of them were carried away, but they all _survived._

“Hey, buddy.” The gentle, understanding tone of Trent’s voice makes Brock realize his best friend has been studying him just as closely. “How’s the beach?”

“It’s, uh. It’s good.” Brock clears his throat. Tries to sound optimistic and unaffected. “The water’s nice and the weather is beautiful. I’m not sure who loves the waves more, Cerberus or the kids.”

Trent’s eyes crinkle as he smiles. “Speaking of which, can I talk to my savior?”

Brock huffs a laugh, then calls the dog up into his lap so that Trent and Cerb can see each other and Trent can explain to the Malinois all the many reasons why he is the best boy, while Cerberus pants happily and thwaps Brock with his wildly wagging tail.

In the end, faced with an impossible choice, Brock did the only thing he could think of.

He knew it was probably a terrible idea, a hopeless shot in the dark, but it was all he had. After covering Trent’s abdominal wound completely with gauze and then plastic to try to reduce contamination, he called Cerb over, had him lie down across Trent’s torso with all his weight pressing down on the wound, and told him firmly to stay.

And then Brock ran. He left his dog and his best friend, and he ran to try to save Sonny.

He doesn’t even know if Cerberus being there really even helped that much in the end. It’s possible Brock had already gotten the bleeding just controlled enough; that Trent would have pulled through either way. But that didn’t stop Bravo Four from deciding that Cerb saved his life and it’s now his solemn duty to spoil the dog as much as possible.

Once Trent is done talking to Cerberus, he fixes Brock with a knowing stare through the screen and asks him point blank, “Are you okay?”

Brock clears his throat. His eyes flicker away, then back. The automatic _yes_ dies on his lips, and he replaces it with, “I will be.”

He will.

He’ll figure this out. His brain will adjust; will find a way to remember, even in sleep, that everyone made it home. He’ll work through it. Just needs some time.

“That’s right,” Trent says, giving him a smile. “We’re all good here. Go have fun with the little monsters, okay?”

 _“Bye, Broccoli!”_ Sonny and Clay chorus offscreen, then burst into cackles.

Brock rolls his eyes fondly, unable to keep the grin off his own face. “Will do. See y’all soon.”

The call ends. He turns off the screen and stares at his own reflection in the suddenly dark glass. His eyes look hollow and haunted.

He isn’t okay just yet. But he will be.

“Uncle Brock, are you coming?” Lynne calls from out front.

“Coming, Lynnie.”

His dog beside him, he walks out into the daylight.


End file.
